Behind His Eyes
by MoparGirl1
Summary: Four days after Owen and Deckard rescue baby Brian, Owen finds himself alone in Paris. Being alone isn't something Owen Shaw has ever given much thought to. Really, he prefers it that way. He isn't one for reflection either, but on this night something is different. A brief look into a complicated mind that this author finds fascinating. Rated M, trigger warnings for dark themes.
1. A Little Past Suppertime

**Author's Note: hey ya'll, this started out as a bit of a character study on Owen Shaw and things just seemed to click. Well, for me. I don't know if what I see when I try to dig through his character will be what you guys see, but he truly intrigues me. And not just because Luke Evans plays such a yummy bad guy, haha!**

 **Also, the story is completed and only three chapters.**

 **Thanks to all of you who've helped me with this! You know who you are!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Owen Shaw or any other canon I mention, only this story.**

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 **Chapter 1**

 **It's a Little Past Suppertime**

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Owen Shaw leaned heavily against the back of his stool. Overhead, the lone light that had turned on as he pulled his "borrowed" car inside flickered and buzzed softly. It cast the cold empty space in an eerie light that reflected dimly off the tools of his old trade lying scattered about, as well as his close-cropped dark hair. A broken flip car sat over the lift, a fabrication table with a half-cut piece of diamond plate lay covered in dust on its perfectly level top. Yellow air hoses hung rolled up neatly on a peg on the wall, their ends dangling down.

An assortment of other machines and tools like a portable compressor, parts washer, and a tubing bender sat in their own spaces. To his right, a row of toolboxes nearly as tall as him lined the wall 'til they reached the door that led to the back room.

When he leased the space and paid three years in advance, he never would have envisioned what was coming. He thought himself untouchable. Now, however, he knew that he wasn't. Not realizing it, Owen reached up touching the scar covering his left cheek. Deckard had always said no matter how good you are there's always someone better.

Everything in the garage was neat and orderly; everything was in its place, just like the stacked tires sitting along the opposite wall beside a tire machine. He didn't have to look to know their cords were showing and the tread was shot.

Funny thing was he never noticed it before. He preferred stuff in its place. He had never really noticed being alone either, but he did tonight. He didn't depend on anyone and, when you don't depend on anyone, you don't need anyone. For the first time, maybe ever, the emptiness felt different as he sat staring unseeingly at the glowing computer monitor on the workbench before him, his brow heavy.

After they landed Ciphers' plane, Deckard had asked Owen what he was going to do. Owen had had no idea. He had ended up in his Paris shop because there were things here he needed, like the cash he'd yet to get from the safe in the back room. Deckard had let him know their mother wanted to see him. He would get to that eventually.

After a moment, his eyes focused on the computer screen again and the long-kept snapshot of the girl to be found there. Powder-blue eyes stared back at him out of a young heart-shaped face, ringed in a halo of wheat-colored curls. A slight frown tugged at the corners of his lips as he looked at the secretive smile on hers. He had no idea why he still had her picture after all these years.

He was not a sentimental man.

The ghost of her voice whispered through his head, along with the image of her tear-streaked face, "My ma was right, Owen Shaw. You only wanted one thing."

Emily Watson. Fifteen and beautiful. Even now, looking at her, he felt a vague pang deep down in his gut, but it wasn't real. She had been his, but not in the sense that he loved her. He had seen that then, even before his brother told him it wasn't love. That knowledge had in no way stopped him from trying to get her back, however.

Another set of blue eyes replaced his brothers' face and the fading image of Emily. They were much darker than Emily's and belonged to the dark-haired doctor who had helped with his rehabilitation after he had woken from his coma and was transferred from the hospital in London.

She had never actually smiled at him, nor had he ever managed to learn her name.

Both of those things were forgotten two seconds later when the image of the Doctor changed to one of a chart left open on a counter in the medical office of a CIA detention facility. The term Antisocial Personality Disorder was scribbled across the top of a crisp white page with a question mark after it. There were a few other notes, but he hadn't had time to read more than that one before the nameless women had started his therapy.

Shifting in his seat, Owen folded his arms over his chest, ignoring the way the scarred part of his torso pulled tightly.

He had never thought about himself in those terms.

He had always sort of disconnected from reality when it came to emotion, and that allowed him to see beyond and into the bigger picture. Clarity could be found even in the most chaotic of situations if you were calm. As a soldier, that had made him capable of making decisions others couldn't and that had saved his life and the lives of his men more than once. In the next stage of his life, he had thought it served him well right up until it hadn't.

He saw now, nearly two decades later, that he only viewed Emily as his possession—he had never felt an ounce of loyalty to her either. And she wasn't the only one.

Owen was not given to reminiscing or personal reflection. The past was just that. He preferred to live his life facing forward, but for some reason, he let the memory take him.

Maybe it was because he'd nearly died. Maybe it was because he had never expected to see freedom again, especially to help rescue Dominic Toretto's son (let's face it, he hadn't done that exactly out of the goodness of his heart either) or maybe it was because those scribbled words held a curious ring of truth.

Emily Watson had been fifteen years old the first time Owen saw her and beautiful. She had also very much had a boyfriend. Owen was seventeen at the time, and even then, had an agenda which didn't involve giving a shit about the guy.

Cocky little fucker that he was (or so his big brother would say) the first thing Owen noticed about her was her noticing him. She blushed and looked away. Owen continued to stare till she looked at him again, then held her gaze till she turned even redder and her eyes dropped a second time. Her secretive glances had continued as the night, and the party they were at, wore on. Eventually, she pulled away from her boyfriend and sought him out.

If his older brother had been around in the beginning to give the advice he always offered whether Owen wanted it or not, he would have reminded Owen that the second thing he should have noticed was the guy whose arm she was on. Deckard would have considered that the most important.

But Deckard wasn't around. His brother was already fighting in some godforsaken stretch of desert by this point. Owen knew it wouldn't have mattered even if he had been there. Emily was beautiful, he wanted her and he had a way of getting what he wanted.

He had been playing pool with a couple of his mates when he caught her looking the last time. When he looked away and made another shot, she started toward him.

He deliberately ignored her, knowing she would come to him. He stood his pool que up, leaned his chin against it and watched his friend Drew make the next shot.

A couple seconds later, she arrived at his side. She had her hands tucked in her back pockets and her bottom lip between her teeth. After a moment, she nervously said, "Hi. I'm Emily."

Owen could still hear the shy, innocent qualities in her voice.

The boyfriend was easy enough to take care of. Owen had had a nasty reputation for being a mean bastard, even then. All it had taken was one look and the guy had just disappeared from the party. When the kid did resurface, it was to try and get Emily back a few days later. She told Owen, who tracked the wanker down and knocked the shit out of him, making sure he understood Emily was his.

He never asked Emily out, she was just there. She seemed more than happy to oblige him. He had slept with her before two days were over. She hadn't wanted to, not really, but she had anyway. Owen pressured her to the point where she caved in because of his anger at her refusal. He took her virginity and she wouldn't leave his side.

Three months later, he was tired of her. He made it obvious but she kept coming around anyway. In the end, he had gotten rid of her by making sure she caught him in bed with her best friend.

It took three days for Owen to decide he wanted her back. This time, Deckard was around. He told Owen, "you're a thick, bastard, you know that. You don't really want the chit, you just want to play games with her."

It didn't matter that Deckard was already in the military or that he was twenty two.

Owen had accused his brother of wanting Emily for himself. Deckard had actually been struck speechless. He had scoffed at the idea and Owen had taken a swing at him. That swing had nothing to do with Emily and everything to do with his brother making him feel stupid for suggesting it. Deckard had knocked him on his ass with still more to say. "You got a lot to learn, little brother. People aren't like parts on a car. You don't care about the girl, if you're swapping her out three months later."

The memories, if that's what you could even call what he'd just experienced, faded and Owen found himself back in the warehouse and the flickering light. He could still remember the rage he felt at his brother more acutely than any of the rest of it. He had never thought about Emily's tears till tonight.

Sometime after he'd lost himself in thought, the heavy mist filling the night air had turned to rain and he sat there just listening to it gently falling against the tin roof. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel. Guilt maybe? Some men would, after the way he had treated her. Not even the idea of taking her virginity and then playing games with her made him feel bad. Deckard would have had a whole lot to say about that particular piece of the story too, had he known.

His older brother had always gone on and on about a man needing a code but had also had strong viewpoints on how they should treat women. The reference his older brother always used for that point was how horrible their father had been to their mother. Terrance Shaw was rough-hewn veteran whose experience had left him hard and unfeeling. He had slapped their mother around more times than Owen could count or remember.

Owen left those memories behind as well. He shifted forward on the stool, grabbed the computer mouse and watched as the picture of Emily Watson filled the screen. He contemplated her face a moment longer before yet another remembrance filled his head. This one he really wasn't certain he wanted to think about.

Letty. Letty Toretto. Even now, that last name left a foul taste in his mouth.

He might not have had any sentiment attached to Emily but he had meant what he said when he told Letty, he liked her.

"I like you, Letty. I dare say I even feel a certain warmth toward you."

But he had come to understand liking someone didn't mean the same thing for him it did for others. It didn't mean they weren't expendable.

With Letty, something else had happened too. It was a rare occurrence for him, that strange sort of protectiveness he felt toward her; he had felt possessiveness before, wherein he was protective of what he was his, but this was different. He hadn't even felt it with his mother.

Letty's betrayal had angered him, even hurt him on some levels. Shaking the thought off, anger swirling in his gut, all he was certain of was Letty Toretto was just a blank slate in a hospital bed when he found her.

Maybe he had never really liked her after all and had used whatever sort of manipulation he could to get what he wanted. It was second nature.

But he had thought he liked her and that was the reason he had been careful with his words. He had never really told women, or men for that matter, what they wanted to hear. In his experience everyone had a price tag.

And he preferred the uncomplicated, cleaner approach. He kept them around till he didn't need or want them anymore.

Something about Letty was just different and he knew if he wanted her those tactics or manipulations wouldn't work. She wouldn't care about what he could give her.

In the end, it hadn't mattered how truthful he had tried to be—she had rejected him when she walked away from him after he told her. And as the events of a few days later had shown, he had still been willing to sacrifice her. There was a very good chance he would have done the same even if she hadn't.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	2. I Didn't Write These Pages

**Hello there! Well, here were are at chapter two. :) Thanks so much for all tha faves and follows and reviews. Yeah, I wasn't really expecting that! Haha!**

 **The next chapter will be up a week from today at the longest!**

 ***Trigger warning: Abuse. Mental and physical.***

 **This chapter is short and I tried to find a medium between too much and the right amount but it is darker than the last.**

 **Disclaimer: you already know what's mine...**

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 **Chapter 2**

 **I Didn't Write These Pages**

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Owen dismissed the memory of Letty. As for Agent Riley Hicks and her part in what had happened, they never even crossed his mind. At some point, he had wrapped his hands around his biceps. He let go and stood up. His stool scraped against the concrete floor at the same time his empty stomach growled loudly; he hadn't eaten since mid-morning. Ignoring his stomach, Owen stood there contemplating Emily's picture for a moment longer before he reached out and deleted it.

If a lack of remorse meant you were a sociopath, Owen could think of few others he'd known in his lifetime that could be. His father for one. Terrance Shaw had a hard shell like so many men of his generation. It was bred into that type to expect everyone to do as he said and not question. It had seemed when Owen was growing up that the only emotion his father had was anger. The smallest thing could set him off.

Owen's mum had always excused his behavior when Owen was little, swearing his dad was a different man before he experienced war. Truthfully, Owen couldn't imagine his father had been soft and cuddly beforehand. The man had always expected both he and Deckard to do the right thing but not just that: he wanted it done as he saw it. In the Shaw household that, could mean almost anything. And it could change daily.

It was like his father expected them to anticipate what had changed without being told. Without questioning his edicts. They took a lashing if they stepped out of line, but it wasn't just them. Their mum took a beating when she didn't behave how his father thought she should also.

Life with his father had therefore been a controlled one.

One of Owen's earliest memories was of playing in the hallway of the little house where they had spent the first few years of his life. He wasn't sure where they had been living at the time since they had moved around so much, but Owen was pretty certain it was Cardiff. He didn't remember the house well besides the kitchen with bright yellow paint on its walls and a crawl space that ran from the bedroom he and Deckard shared to the one his parents slept in. He could vaguely remember playing inside of it but he knew he had hid there as well.

He had been so young, he couldn't remember much besides sitting on the hall floor near the kitchen, playing. He remembered a door slamming, his father yelling, then the sight of his mother slamming into the wall. Seconds later, his father's hands were around her throat. He wasn't sure what happened next either, but Deckard was there, pulling him away before his father's anger turned on them. They had stayed hidden in that crawl space till his mother came and found them hours later.

Truthfully, whatever had sparked his father's rage could have been as small as a chair being pushed into the table at an angle he didn't like. There was no telling.

But that was just one of thousands of times Owen had seen his father's wrath over the years. There were times when Owen knew he deserved it and others when he didn't.

But there were other things beside just his father's unreasonable and unpredictable anger that made life hell. Terrence was quick to think the worst of everyone, not just his own family. He was paranoid and always thought someone was trying to cheat him or that they were sneaking around behind his back. His father never questioned those he imagined had done him wrong outside of the house. He brought his anger home with him and they all suffered for it but, specifically and always, his father didn't believe him. Eventually, Owen had just started lying, because he knew it wasn't going to matter if he told the truth.

The funny part about it was, he couldn't remember the first time his father took a strap to him, but he sure could remember the last. He could also remember the first deliberate lie.

That lie had occured when he was seven or eight and they were living in a small place in Manchester. The streets may have been dirty and cramped but Owen had loved it, maybe not so much the place itself, but the fact that his father's job there worked him later into the evening. Most of the time both he and Deckard were in bed by the time their dad got home at night and his father was asleep when they left for school in the morning. That freedom had been amazing for a little kid who was always afraid what his dad would do next and his mother had let them play and just be children.

Owen had come running into the house through the front door, taking the path that led him through the lounge because he could hear his mum in the washroom. He stopped just long enough to drop his lunch pail then ran right out the back door. He remembered his mother calling to him, but he didn't stop. He just wanted to play. He had been running around the corner of the shed when a hand shot out, bringing him up short. White-hot pain speared through his shoulder and continued as his father swung him around.

He grabbed both of Owen's arms in a bruising grip. "Did you leave the sink running in the bathroom this morning?"

Instantly, Owen had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had and he knew what awaited him if he admitted to it. His father didn't give him a chance to answer. His grip tightened and the rage in his eyes grew. "You dumb little _get._ "

His father drew one hand back to slap him, still holding onto him with the other. Owen shielded his face as best he could, pulling back on his father's grip, and said, "No, Da, it wasn't me."

The first blow felt hard and swift across his head and they kept coming. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could still hear his mother pleading. "Stop, Terrance, it was an accident."

When his father finished, he stormed off and didn't come back for a few days. It was about two weeks later when they moved again.

Not long after that Deckard had stepped in the first time to save him from their father.

He knew his brother thought he was making it better and he had, for a time, but it had already been too late. It hadn't made a difference. Not in any way that mattered. It had never been a deliberate thing on Owen's part, the lying, the stealing, the anger—not in the beginning at least. But the damage had already been done.

The older they got, the worse things became for Owen with their dad and the angrier he had become. Eventually, he stopped lying and just didn't say anything when his father accused him.

Deckard still tried to help him but, by that point, it had been far past too late.

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 **Thanks for reading.**


	3. My Scripts Been Rearranged

**Ah-ha, here we are at the end of the road, my lovelies! What a beautiful road it has been. A brief moment of thanks, then we'll get to it. First off, thanks so much for the reviews follows and faves! I really didn't expect them!**

 **There is an acronym in here, some of you probably won't be familiar with: OGA- Other Government Agency.**

 **Ya'll know I own nothing here!**

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 **Chapter 3**

 **My Script's Been Rearranged**

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Closing his eyes, Owen bent his neck forward and slowly rolled his shoulders back, working his sore muscles. The warm water slipped over them, soothing some of the pain. Murky light filtered in from the narrow cobwebbed window above his head and tinged everything in green. Owen focused on the sound of the water, hoping it would relax another part of him. Then he turned around so it washed over his face and directly onto the worst of his scars. After a moment, he grabbed the bar of soap from the shelf, rubbed it between his hands then started washing his chest. His fingers carefully brushed over the soft webbing of raised tissue that covered part of his right pec and grew thicker the closer it got to his left side, which held the worst of his injuries. The ones on his face and neck he had grown used to, but he still avoided touching the others. They felt strange. He had barely any sensation in some areas. In others, he found small places that felt almost normal. But it wasn't just that that made him hesitant to touch them. His movements slowed with the thought. It was something far deeper. Much darker. Compeletly hidden. And something Owen did not even fully understand.

He didn't like others touching them either, but the doc had.

For just a moment, the memory of lying on a hard examination table with small gentle hands on his side filled his head. She had given him soft tissue massages twice a week and had encouraged him to do the same. He also remembered the soft inflection in her voice when she said, it would help keep his muscles and skin loose and help with his flexibility and range of motion. She also told him he was lucky he had been in a coma as his nerves regenerated, and that he hadn't really experienced much of the pain syndromes associated with full thickness burns. It didn't matter how soft that Southern American drawl had sounded saying it, he still didn't see much lucky about his situation. His muscles had been severely atrophied and he had considerable pain and stiffness. Not to mention the sudden loss of strength he had dealt with early on in his left hand and arm. He hadn't commented on any of it. It was simple, really: if he wanted to survive where he was, and where he was going, he had no choice but to push himself. The less he said, the less he had to worry about her or one of the others making him go slow. He figured she knew all of that, but had been willing to let him work at his own pace.

The time and expense they put into his rehabilitation would have made little sense to him if he hadn't been familiar with how the CIA and OGAs worked. He had seen and heard stories about the stuff they did at places like The Salt Pit in Afghanistan when he was a soldier. Lowmpac, the facility he learned he was being detained at after Deckard broke him out, was a holding facility. The sort they sent you to to be fixed up if they wanted you healthy. He still couldn't figure out what someone like the blue-eyed doctor was doing working in a hellhole like that. She didn't have the jaded roughness about her or the age he would have expected of someone in her line of work. He reminded himself that there were many things about her he didn't know, like her name and who the fuck Sigurd was, though he would eventually figure that last one out.

At some point last night, he'd found his way to the back room and the narrow cot in the corner. The bed had come with the warehouse when he leased it, but he had never slept in it 'til last night. The mattress was old, lumpy and had made his back and shoulder ache, more than they already would.

The thoughts of his father from the previous night still lingered. He'd spent hours lying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the things that happened and the choices he had made. Terrance Shaw wasn't an overly friendly man, but the face he showed the world and the face he wore at home were different.

To the outside world he was always seen as likable. Everyone thought he was hardworking, honest. A man's man. A family man. He could even be charming if he wanted to be, blindly so. To his family, he had been an unapologetic and manipulative bastard. In public, his father always wore a mask of morality that blinded most people to his real persona.

Owen had even experienced his father's charm on several occasions when he was a kid. Each time it had always come at a price and his father had used it to trap him on more than one occasion.

Now that he was older, Owen was certain that was why they had left Manchester as quickly as they did. His mother had always covered up her own bruises, as well as his and Deckard's, or made excuses for their existence, but this time she hadn't been able to. Terrence had dislocated Owens shoulder and he needed stitches on his cheek.

Shoving that part of the memory aside, Owen also wondered if that wasn't why his father's new choice for meting out punishment was specifically the leather strap instead of his hands. It was cleaner, more precise and efficient. And reminded Terrance Shaw not to leave marks where they could be seen. The punishments had been no less severe, however.

Owen rinsed the soap from his body then shut off the water and stepped over the three inch lip in the concrete. He'd been prepared to shower even if there wasn't a towel, but he'd found one folded up on a shelf along with a bag containing some clothes he had left there at some point. He grabbed it from the peg on the wall and wrapped it around his waist. The clothes might not smell like they were freshly laundered but they smelled better than the ones he'd been wearing for the previous three days.

He dried off, picking up the bottle of pain killers on the bench beside the clothes, he took one. Swollowing it as he slipped on his jeans before he pulled the grey-blue henley over his head and slid the long sleeves up his forearms. He dismissed the sight of the scars covering the lower part of his left arm. He still didn't know what he was going to do now. He had seen the uncertainty in Deckard's gaze when they parted ways four days ago. Not having a plan was a new experience for Owen, but right now, he needed to eat—he'd figure out what came next after.

Sitting down on the bench where his clothes had been, he put on his socks and boots. He knew he really should go see his mother—Deckard had said she was still living in New York—but Owen wasn't sure he was ready. Seeing Deckard was one thing since, while he could see the doubt in his brother's eyes, he knew Deckard would let him go his own way…whichever way that may be. Seeing Magdalene Shaw was another matter altogether: she would have expectations.

Leaning forward, Owen placed his elbows on his knees and stared unseeingly at the pale green tiles on the opposite wall. He had always been aware his mother was disappointed in him but Owen wasn't given to apologizing.

Honestly, if anything, it had made him angrier.

He had always recognized what she wanted for him and the startling contrast of what he had become. Despite the fact she had stayed with his father 'til Owen was nearly grown, she had always wanted something better, something more for him. It wasn't just him she wanted it for either but she had probably gotten closer to it with Deckard.

Maybe that was why, on some levels, he had grown to resent his brother. Owen had always known that, even though he would never have admitted it before, even to himself, and probably never would again. That had started way back all those years ago, when he began to see his father take it easier on Deckard than he would if Owen were receiving punishment for the same thing.

The resentment had only grown as they got older, especially when he realized his brother had stepped into the role their father should have inhabited. It got worse still as he saw his mother depended on Deckard to keep him out of trouble. In some twisted way, it became worse again when his brother joined the army—not because Deckard had left him there alone, but because he got out: out of the house, away from their father, and started his own life.

Owen could see now his mum had only wanted the best for him, just like she had probably had stayed with his dad because she knew what it was like to grow up without a father. That didn't change the fact that, as kid, he hadn't been able to see that she was doing what she felt she had to or the possibility that, on some levels, he had blamed her. But he also knew that if he had known, it still wouldn't have changed how angry he was.

He left home as quickly as he could. He was sure his mother breathed a sigh of relief when he'd chosen the service over the other things he could have done. He was equally as certain she hadn't been pleased with the way his career ended.

But really Magdalene Shaw shouldn't have expected either him or Deckard to lead normal lives. For his part, Deckard had tried, but life had had other plans. Owen had never given a shit. He had simply found something he was good at and did it.

His father was a con artist but, in her own way, his mother had been too.

She had guarded it well all her life but she was as good as his father at some things. In the early years, she used her talent to ensure their survival, but since she had proven herself more than capable of taking care of herself. All those artful gifts for smoothing things over and hiding the truth had been useful.

Owen still knew she genuinely cared—he had never doubted that, no matter how angry he got. He also knew he had probably broken her heart but Owen had accepted what he became a long time ago.

After another moment, Owen stood up and left the bathroom. He grabbed his jacket, keys and envelope of money off the work bench and headed for the R8 he'd picked up in Germany a couple nights ago. When he reached the car, he paused to look around one last time before he got in.

xxxx

An hour later, stomach full, Owen handed a young waitress some euros before he leaned back in his chair. He stretched one long denim-clad leg out under the little iron table in front of him. His gaze passed around the busy Parisian street and the people sitting at similar tables around him before it returned to his phone. A smirk almost instantly tilted up the left corner of his lips as he scanned the screen. Then, leaving the words on his phone behind, his attention drifted to the table.

"Losing your touch, little brother?" A vaguely smug voice said from directly behind him, chasing away the image forming in his head.

Owen looked up, not at all surprised to see his brother stepping around him, wearing an expression even more smug than his voice. He didn't say a word, just laid his phone down and waited while Deckard took the vacant seat opposite his.

"Playing errand boy?" Owen finally questioned, watching Deckard make himself at home.

If he'd thought about it, he would have known that Magdalene Shaw would send his big brother to collect him at some point, when he didn't immediately answer her summons.

Apparently ignoring Owen's comment, Deckard eyed the half-eaten sandwich on the plate in front of Owen. "You gonna finish that?"

Amused though he didn't really show it, Owen gestured to it nonchalantly, as if to say, 'by all means'.

Deckard grabbed the sandwich. Leaving the plate behind, he took a bite of his pilfered food before saying, "Well, I'm glad to see some things never change."

Owen could say the same thing, but didn't. "I was getting to it," he assured his brother.

"Not fast enough. She wants to see her precious baby boy." Deckard said, the last of his words coming out in an almost whining pitch. Owen's brows rose at the sound, but before he had a chance to say a word, Deckard continued, "can't imagine why though, you aren't nearly as pretty as you used to be."

"I'm still prettier than you."

"You always were bloody delusional," Deckard replied with an equal measure of sarcasm before he nodded at the phone Owen had placed on the table. "Since when do you read about dragons?"

Not even sparing a glance to his phone, Owen countered, "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think, older brother."

 **As always, thanks for reading!**


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